


Throne

by ideliagirl



Series: Jon and Sansa's Excellent Use of Furniture [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Families Being Horrible, Families Being Womderful, Happily Married, Kick-Ass Old Women, Prom, Shameless Smut, So Much Ostentation, Some historical references, Wedding Fluff, Weddings, cutie pie babies, mentions of punching jerkface teenagers, mentions of verbal assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 07:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10509216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ideliagirl/pseuds/ideliagirl
Summary: 4th installment of my series starting with Table.Apparently, Jon and Sansa don't even need to be at home to be inappropriate on furniture.They find a way to have a much better time at Myrcella Baratheon's wedding than they'd anticipated.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Smaller amount of (still explicit) smut than normal. Heavy on fluff and making fun of Lannister snobbishness.
> 
> Enjoy!!

“Why are we going to this thing again?”

“Because Myrcella Baratheon is a sweet girl who’s marrying a sweet boy and we want to celebrate with her.” Sansa replies to her husband, smoothing down the skirt of her dress.

Margaery continues as she helps Jon with his bow tie. “We’ll also be celebrating the fact that with said marriage she’ll be escaping the selfish, manipulative, oppressive horror-show that is her family.”

“Yes, but that horror-show will _also_ be there, so again I ask, why are we going to this thing again?”

Robb lifts Aemy off his lap, placing her directly on the sofa and stands up to put on his jacket. “Robert Baratheon is one of Dad’s oldest and dearest friends.”

Jon grimaces. “A fact I’ve known for nearly twenty years and still can’t quite believe.”

“And Marg wants to make Joffrey Baratheon jealous.” Sansa adds putting on her shoes.

“I do not! Ugh, I’ve explained this,” Margaery taps her high-heeled foot on the floor. “Yes, I’d like to rub my husband in Joffrey’s wormy little face, but only so I can show him that I truly and utterly love this man. A man who’s kind, and brave, and generous, and respectful of my values and opinions.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Robb comes over to kiss her cheek after she finishes Jon’s tie.

“And has an ass I can bounce a coin off of and hard abs I frequently smear chocolate syrup on.” Marg quickly adds while she stands before the mirror putting on lipstick. “But mainly the kind, brave, generous, respectful thing.”

“Arya, how did you get out of being invited tonight?” Jon shouts to his other sister-in-law still in the kitchen.

Arya shouts back. “Oh, two years ago at a New Year’s Eve party, I called Cersei Baratheon a whore.”

“Damn it.” Jon groans, examining his tie in the mirror. “Why couldn’t I have thought of that?”

“Aemy? You’re gonna have so much fun with Aunt Arya tonight.” Sansa says as she puts her purse together. “But you have to be good, okay?” She looks at her daughter and nods in encouragement. “You’ll behave?”

Aemy nods back from where she sits on the sofa. “Ghot bave do?” She points a tiny finger behind Sansa.

Sansa doesn’t have time to look behind her before a flurry of white swooshes past her and jumps up beside Aemy, gently laying its head on her chubby little legs. “Yes, Ghost promised me he’d behave too.”

Arya emerges from the kitchen eating Golden Grahams straight from the cereal box. “Hey, can I watch ‘ _Trainspotting_ ’ with Aemy while you’re gone?”

“What’s ‘ _Trainspotting_ ’?” Sansa inquires.

“It’s a highly-acclaimed independent film from Scotland.”

“Oh, sure.”

Robb pipes up. “About destitute, psychotic, heroin-addicted criminals.

“Oh, no.” Sansa cringes. “Arya, why would you even ask that?”

“Well, can we watch a UFC fight then?” Arya asks, then throws up her hand at Sansa’s glare. “Fine, we’ll watch Doc McStuffins or whatever.” Arya plops down on the sofa and opens her hand for Aemy to find a Golden Graham resting in the palm. The toddler takes it, grinning up at her. Arya returns it genuinely, Aemy being one of few in existence who can routinely get a non-sarcastic smile from her aunt.

“Hey, Doc McStuffins can be pretty existential.” The other adults in the room turn to stare blankly at Jon over his claim. “What? It can be.”

“Jon? Are any of the Targaryens going to be there tonight?” Margaery starts on her husband’s bow-tie. “Don’t Rhaella and Cersei Baratheon’s father live in the same town?”

“They do.” Jon shakes his head, “But _no_. Maybe if my grandfather and Joanna Lannister hadn’t both died years ago, but the families have since……. had a falling out.”

“Jon, _damn_.” Robb winces. “You make it sound like Don Ciccio and Vito Corleone.”

He looks to the others, chuckling at his own joke. But Sansa shakes her head, not understanding.

“God, Sans.” Robb opens his arms in exasperation. “How have you not seen The Godfather?”

“I have a eighteen-month-old…….oh, and a life.”

Jon grabs his and Sansa’s coats, looking to Margaery as she once-overs Robb’s appearance. “Are we ready to go?”

“I think so.” Margaery walks toward the hallway with Robb, grabbing her purse as she yells back. “Bye Aemy! Uncle Robb and I love you.” She stops before crossing over. “Arya? We tolerate you and your smart mouth because we, somewhat against our will, love you as well.”

“Bite me, sweetheart.” Arya smirks back as Margaery blows her a kiss.

Sansa goes over to the sofa to lean in and kiss Aemy’s forehead. “Love you, sweet one. Be good.” She then points to her sister. “Arya? You be good too. You psychologically scar our parents only grandchild and I’ll sic them both on you.”

“Darling girl?” Jon crouches down to cup Aemy’s face. “We’ll go the park tomorrow.” He says, smooching her cheek loudly.

She giggles and pats the snowy lump beside her. “Ghot part do?”

“Yes, Ghost can come to the park too.” Jon chuckles.

“Geez,” Robb laughs from the hallway. “Your kid sure cares a lot about what that dog does.”

 

 

Sansa has never seen a gaudier, more horrifying display of seeming-superiority-through-wealth in her entire life. There is gold-colored silk bunting draped over every balustrade, banquet table, back of Louis XIV chair, wall fixture and crystal chandelier in the hall. Hand-painted chinoiserie vases hold orchids and saffrons on every table, strands of gold swarvoski beads dripping over their sides and ortolan bird figurines nestling inside.

There are harpists strumming gilded instruments, contortionists performing in yellow leotards with their faces painted in shimmering gold, fire-breathers out on the terrace, and a Klimt-esque painting of Myrcella and Trystane resting in a corner of the room, it’s braggadocio artist standing nearby and swooning with all the guests who are fawning over him.

But worst of all, lovely Myrcella and her gracious groom are seated on a dais, in the center of a long family banquet table, in two huge gilded wood chairs designed to look like _palace thrones_.

The only people at the table of honor who _aren’t_ sitting with their chests full of hot air and gleaming with presumed eminence--are her sweet brother Tommen, her nauseated and soon-to-be-very-drunk Uncle Tyrion (who Sansa actually gets a kick out of at holiday parties), the embarrassed father of the groom (unable to escape the pretentiousness due to his wheelchair hidden beneath the gold tablecloth), Trystane…… and Myrcella herself, dressed in her original Oscar de la Renta, almost seeming to crumble under the weight of the event’s flamboyance .

Myrcella looks up from the table only as often as she must in order to still be a good bride and has yet to eat anything from her golden plate. This either from anxiety and embarrassment, or from the fact that Trystane has rather sweetly not let go of her hand the whole evening, lifting it periodically to soothingly kiss her palm.

Sansa smiles sympathetically from their table in the back, the fact that Myrcella at least has a man who genuinely loves her tugging at her heartstrings.

“This is just embarrassing.” Robb chuckles from behind his glass of Dom Perignon.

“I know.” Jon rolls his eyes. “You don’t think the Lannisters want everyone to know they have money, do you?”

Robb looks around. “Why the fuck is everything gold?”

Margarery puts on an overly haughty tone. “The Lannisters are descended from a town in France built over a gold mine.” She flutters her eyelashes mockingly.

“Yeah, but Myrcella’s a Baratheon, not a Lannister.”

“Oh, come on, you know it’s her grandfather who’s paying for the everything.”

“Plus, I’m sure it wasn’t appropriate to bring in tanks full of scotch and a truck load of hookers,” Sansa pipes up. “so they couldn’t represent what her dad’s most known for.”

“Quick,” Robb leans in and mumbles conspiratorially out the corner of his mouth. “everyone put their flatware in Sansa’s purse and we can start a college fund for Aemy.”

“Oh, Grandmother and Loras are here!” Margarery exclaims with relief as she gets out of her seat. “Finally, someone besides you three and Ned and Catelyn who I can talk to without wanting to throw up all over the Baccarat crystal stemware.”

 

 

Later, after the guests have finished their 4-star French gourmet dinners and listened to arias from the city’s most distinguished opera diva and danced to a chart-topping pop boy-band sensation, the hosts of the _humble soiree_ give their toasts.

They are 2 percent about how Myrcella is a good, obedient girl and 98 percent about how she comes from a prestigious, illustrious family. Myrcella and Trystane suffer through them and then are whisked away in a Rolls-Royce to blissfully start their new lives together.

Those who can still walk are piled into cars, cabs or rented limos and sent home. Cersei Baratheon, her father, twin brother and remaining children flee home in their limousine…….while Ned and Catelyn are rather abruptly left by themselves to ensure the almost unconscious Robert and Tyrion make it to a couple of hastily-rented rooms at a hotel nearby.

Sansa, Margaery and Olenna Tyrell are cajoled by the Baratheon’s chief accountant into letting him show them around the club’s gardens, and what should have been a fifteen-minute endeavor turns into one hour.

Even though she can’t stand the smarmy way he looks at her, _Mrs. Snow--_ as Sansa repeatedly calls herself in Mr. Baelish’s presence--becomes the one he attempts to impress the most. Calling on her interest and career in history, he takes her aside several times to show her certain antiquities and statues housed on the manicured grounds. Sansa must frequently both pull herself away from his overly-friendly hand on her back, and resist the urge to tell him he has his history wrong on several of the objects in which he professes to be an expert.

After Olenna ends the tour by pretending to be the tired, forgetful and feeble old woman Sansa and Margaery know her _not to be_ , Sansa washes her hands—literally and figuratively—of Petyr Baelish.

She then goes looking for her neglected husband, finding him in the half-lit, empty ballroom staring up at the two thrones still sitting center on the otherwise cleared dais. She stops for a moment at the entrance of the hall to smile and thank all her good fortunes.

“You know these thrones are supposed to be representative of the thrones at the Palace of Versailles.” She surprises him as she walks in, her face radiant in the moonlight cast through the two-story French doors.

After looking back at her, he runs up the steps of the dais and stands beside one of the thrones, bending his leg up and sticking out his chest like royalty having their painting made. “Whadaya think, do I look like the Sun King?”

She comes up to stand beside him, stroking his cheek. “You know that Louis XIV lived at Versailles and was called the Sun King?”

“My wife teaches European History, so I’d better know it.”

Sansa smiles gently at her husband and then sighs, looking around at the empty, gilded room. “Myrcella Baratheon is one of the sweetest, most down-to-earth girls I’ve ever known and I’ve never seen her look more uncomfortable than she did sitting on this stupid throne, listening to her stuck-up mother and sloshed father give their toasts.”

“Hey,” he takes her hand. “she’s Myrcella Martell now. And as soon as she left here, none of that mattered anymore. She and Trystane will take care of each other.”

She pulls him in to rest her head on his chest over his heart. “That’s the thing about marrying a great guy, isn’t it?”

He hums for a moment and she feel it against her cheek. “Hey, wanna sit on this throne and be a queen for a minute?”

She pecks a kiss on his lips. “I’m already a queen.”

“I remember thinking that this morning when I walked into the kitchen and Aemy had thrown a spoonful of her mashed carrots in your hair.”

She laughs. “Even the highest of us must bow before our subjects.”

He sits in one of the thrones and grins. “Come on.” He pats his thigh. “Sit with me.”

“In your lap?” She grins back at him and points to the other chair. “When I have my own perfectly good throne right there?”

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown, yeah?” He begins as she feels his hand glide up to her ass and pull her down to sit. “Well, the head can feel a lot lighter in my lap.”

She laughs throatily, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I wonder if your editor knows you’re this cheesy with the suggestive remarks you give your wife.”

“Cheesy, yes.” he agrees. “but I didn’t know I had to be all that suggestive when it comes to you.”

She sighs happily. “You don’t.”

He starts to run his hand up her thigh under her dress, finally ghosting over her panties. “You sure about that?”

“If you can be alert enough to watch the entrances,” she takes his other hand and places it to cup her breast over her dress. “I’m very sure.”

“Fuck, baby. Did the champagne make you this free and easy?”

She shakes her head. “No, the gratitude for the way my life turned out.”

“Sansa Snow.” He momentarily moves his hand from her breast to gently cup her cheek. “Sometimes you manage to say the sweetest things.”

She looks around. “I don’t think we’ll be able to _go all the way_ ,” she reaches between them, rubbing over his clothed cock while his hand returns to cup her breast, thumbing over a hardening nipple. “but you were able to make me hot for you and keep me in love with you for six months with just your hand.”

“But if I hadn’t eaten your pussy on our six-month anniversary, you would’ve cut me loose?”

“Driving me down to Riverrun, lemoncake you made yourself, picnic blanket under the stars…….” She laughs flippantly. “that was nice and all…….. but if you hadn’t gone down? I would’ve been out.”

“See, now that’s just rude.” He jokingly pouts. “I could’ve lasted forever the way we’d been going even if you _hadn’t_ returned the favor for the first time on that same night.”

She snickers doubtfully. “You really think so?”

“Well, yeah.” He grins and bites her lip. “At least until I died of hypothermia from spending eighteen hours a day in a cold shower.”

“Oh, you’d have been a martyr just to be a gallant gentleman?” She bites his lip back, her fingers nimbly pulling down his zipper. “A rather dumb martyr as it would have turned out, seeing as I was just itching to have you between my lips.”

He reaches for her hand before it can get inside his pants and pulls it away. “Afraid not, love, just you this time.”

“What?” She almost gasps in horror, realizing what he means. “Jon, no, I wan--”

“You’re right, I can’t fuck you in here with people still mulling about outside, but also, I can’t come and make a mess on our clothes with people still mulling about outside--”

“So, when you’re ready, let me get down on my--”

“Let me take care of you, baby.” He pulls her hand to his mouth and kisses her palm. “I want to. You can return the favor when we get home, but for right now, it’s just not practical.”

Her eyes shut and she moans when his fingers start moving again to pull her panties aside and dip his fingertips in her wet heat. “I’m never practical when it comes to you.”

“And thank God for that,” He slides further in her cunt as her wetness seeps all around them. “But you’d have become real practical really quick if we’d been found out and word got back to your parents what we did in this ballroom.”

“You know, when you’ve got your fingers inside me, getting me off, and you’re telling me all the reasons I shouldn’t get _you_ off---and _you’re right?”_ She licks a path up his jawline and harshly pulls his lips to hers. “It really makes me want to rip your face off.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” He rasps sweetly, his thumb moving in circles over her clit with his index and middle fingers curling inside her. “I’ll lose my rhythm.”

“No. No, never.” She presses her forehead to his cheek and her eyes fall shut, desperate at feeling the push and pull of his fingers sliding along her tight walls. “You’re always perfect, always working me up, always up, always up…… until there is just never any possible way that I’m not gonna completely fall apart…..and then fall back down into you.”

“Sans, baby, God.” He can barely speak, palming her breast and tugging on her nipple while her hips move of their own accord against him as she rocks up around his fingers, then rolls back down over his hard and rapidly growing cock. “You smell so good…..so beautiful …..such a soft, warm, wet cunt.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s with your hands…..” her voice hitches roughly. “or with your mouth…or with your sweet, dirty voice over the phone…..” he feels her walls flutter and then clench around his fingers as she grinds over him. “or with your cock.” Her hand flies out to his leg in an unyielding grip. “There’s never a single part of you that doesn’t make me come.”

“Then do it for me now. Come on, come for me. Please, baby.” He begs, his hot breath panting against her ear before he bites her lobe. “Let’s make sure we enjoyed these thrones tonight more than the bride and groom.”

She gasps, her legs stiffen and clamp closed on his hand, and he feels the tremor that travels all the way down her body as she comes.

He too feels a tautness inside his body snap, letting out a flood of release from his scalp down to his toes. He swallows back a deep groan and smiles dazedly. “I love it when you come.”

Her body falls limply back against his chest and she turns her head to catch her breath in the crook of his neck. “Love it more than coming yourself?”

She feels the deep rumble of his laugh against her back and he whispers covertly, “The wetness in my boxers should be proof I killed two birds with one stone on that one.”

She sits up slightly, turning to feel his lap. “Really? Just from taking care of me?”

“Well….” he starts, “you are magnificent and any man would die a thousand deaths to see you gasp and shake because of him…..” he smirks at her. “but your truly fine ass rubbing against my throbbing cock might have also helped.”

“Well,” she snakes her hand inside his still-unzipped pants and reaches into his boxers. Then she watches his mouth fall open and eyes flutter shut after she pulls her fingers back out, the tips wet with his come, and licks them clean. “it was an imperfect plan.”

He moans. “I have the best wife ever.”

“I’m aware.”

They both whine slightly at the separation when he takes his soaked fingers out of her and wipes them on his pants. He presses his mouth to hers and they taste each other; champagne, wedding cake, desire, love, devotion.

She stands first, her legs wobbling slightly, and holds out her hand for him. “Outta your throne. I’ll take you home and fuck you in our humble peasant bed.”

He lets her pull him up and zips his pants, also straightening the sash that’d become askew on the back of her dress. “You know we have a better life than most of the people who were in this room.”

“We have a better life than most of the people who are on the planet.” She kisses his cheek and un-does his bow tie.

“Aemy’ll have us up at 6am.” He grins and leads her down the dais. “Let’s go home so we can wake up tomorrow to the best thing that all the Lannister money in the world could never buy.”

Sansa twirls around under his arm and takes one last look at the pared-down space. “There was the moment in the middle of all this gaudy mess--that knowing both Myrcella and Trystane I am sure _neither_ of them wanted--when they said their vows, I looked at them looking at each other, and it really did seem like they were the only two people in the world.”

“I’m sure it felt like that for _them_ too.” Jon smiles, slightly shy. “It certainly felt that way for me.”

“On our wedding day?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, _come on_ , Sansa.” He twines his fingers with hers. “You were standing there, _actually_ promising to live the rest of your life _with_ _me_ \--I hadn’t tricked you or blackmailed you or anything, you just wanted to do it _on your own_.” He listens to her sweet laugh and kisses her ring.   “With that happening, how could there have been anybody else in my world but you?”

She pulls their hands to her lips and kisses his fingers as well. “Even more so after tonight, I’ve never been so happy we got married in my parent’s backyard.”

“With what this shit must have cost, I’m sure your parents are too.” He laughs.

“I love you so much.” She stands on her tip-toes to kiss his forehead and then looks toward the door. “Is my dress on alright now? I don’t want it to be shockingly obvious that my husband just fingered me on a stupid fucking gilded chair.”

“Um, what are you complaining about? I’ll have a _come stain_ on the front of my pants.”

She takes in his appearance. Thankfully they seem to be some of the last people left in the country club. “Just hold my coat on your arm over your middle and you’ll seem like a gallant gentleman helping his lady-- and not the dirty, dirty boy I truly know you to be.”

A voice rings out into the semi-darkness. “Ah, ready to go, are you?”

“Oh,” Sansa clutches her chest when the woman becomes visible from the entrance. “Grandmother Olenna! You surprised us!” She looks around nervously. “We were just….um….getting our things.”

Olenna clinks the ice in the Bloody Mary in her hand. “Well, this is the only thing I’ve needed to get since that walk with Baelish.” She shivers tellingly then tuts sweetly at Sansa. “Margaery sent me to find you, dear. She and Robb are ready to go.”

“Oh, thanks.” Jon puts the strap of Sansa’s purse over her shoulder, keeping her coat he’d retrieved earlier. “Do you need a ride, Mrs. Tyrell?”

“Oh, how I would love to get a ride from you, sweet boy,” She purrs knowingly. “But sadly, Loras drove me in. I just came in to get my hat I seem to have left behind.”

They begin to walk past her. “Well, then. Goodnight.”

“Oh, children?” Olenna calls and they stop, looking back. “You’re not the only ones who enjoyed those thrones tonight more than the bride and groom.” She holds up her cocktail in salute. “Thanks for the show.”

Sansa’s jaw almost drops to the polished marble floor and Jon’s head hangs in embarrassment, but his body rolls with laughter.

“Well…….this night did not turn out how I thought it would.”

“Better?” She asks hopefully.

“Definitely some parts of it.” He chuckles, looking at his watch. “Well, it’s way after midnight. I’m afraid it’s just a pumpkin taking you home, Cinderella.”

“Not a correct analogy, baby. Cinderella was _looking_ for her prince.” She pecks his lips. “I already found mine in another empty ballroom a long time ago.” She hooks her arm in his and laughs. “I was just too young and blind to realize it.”

He kisses the side of her head. “Well, ‘young and blind’ is still better than the ‘cowardly and lovestruck’ that _I_ was that night.”

**11 YEARS AGO**

Jon walked into the darkened, silent ballroom and kicked a fallen balloon across the floor, inadvertently sending some confetti up onto the leg of his rented tuxedo.

It didn’t take him long to find Sansa sitting at a table in one of the cheap plastic banquet chairs, her intricate hairstyle un-done to let the mane fall down her back, contemplatively strumming her manicured nail against the tabletop beside her discarded high-heel shoes.

“Is Marg okay?” She asked without looking at him.

“Yeah, I think. Robb’s with her…….” Jon chuckled to himself. “Holed up, actually, in the lounge of the _ladies’_ bathroom that you’d been in with her for most of the night.”

“That’s nice of him.”

“Well, you needed a break.” He told her honestly. “Not to mention, he’s hated Joffrey since we were in sixth grade with him.”

She looked to the ceiling. “I can’t believe Robb punched him in the stomach.”

“We heard him say absolutely _horrible_ things to her that NO guy should ever say to ANY girl.” He could barely contain his anger and yanked his tie loose. “And he’s supposed to actually be her _boyfriend_?”

“Not anymore.” Sansa let out a sad sigh. “Marg was so excited for us to be going to the _Senior_ prom. She and I spent three days trying to find dresses that didn’t make us look like sophomores.” She sat back defeatedly in her chair. “Joffrey may not have put his hands on her, but she’s my best friend, Jon. Those words hurt her _and hurt me_ , just as if he _had_.”

His view of Sansa had been changing by the minute that night, ever since he’d seen her scream like a banshee at the sniveling boy who’d just mistreated her friend.

_When had this happened_?

Wasn’t it just yesterday she’d been a child who sneered at him and Robb that they were ‘ _stupid to play your dumb video games when you might actually con some total idiot into going out with you if you’d just take showers and leave the house for five seconds’_?

When had she turned into the loyal, articulate, self-sufficient _young woman_ who sat before him _?_ And had she always been this beautiful? With a smile that made you feel like everything wrong in life would be okay so long as you got to see it again?

She started to chuckle. “It was so funny when Joff left here crying.”

He looked down to the floor. “Well, if any guy ever said those things to you, I’d have made sure he left here on a stretcher.”

“Jon Snow.” She smiled sincerely and softly shook her head at him. “Sometimes you manage to say the sweetest things.”

He took a trembling breath. “Your date isn’t waiting for you?”

“Harry and Joff are friends.” She waved her hand toward the exit. “So, I doubt he’s even still _speaking_ to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” Sansa stated without reservation. “And once she gets over the embarrassment of all this, Margaery won’t be either.”

“She doesn’t deserve a guy like that.” Jon told her firmly.

“She knows.”

“And you absolutely do not either.”

“I know.” She nodded and then soundly added. “I _absolutely_ do not either, tonight showed me that.”

“Well, thank god.” Jon told her, a breathy chuckle escaping. “You’ve always been smart, Sans. But sometimes, unfortunately, people only learn a truth like that after a lot of years.” He smiled genuinely at her. “Sixteen is pretty ahead of the curve.”

She put her hand on her chest over her heart. “The kind of guys Marg and I deserve sure as hell don’t speak to other human beings like Joffrey did tonight. And this morning we may have been blinded by the glitz of going to Senior prom, but tonight I realize we deserve the kind of guy my father has always wanted for me, a guy who is ‘ _brave and gentle and strong_ ’. That guy is not Joffrey Baratheon.” She ripped off the corsage her date had given her and threw it on the ground. “And it’s not Harry Hardyng.”

“No, it’s not, it’s no—“

“We need true, chivalrous princes. And I have no idea where we’ll find ‘em, but it won’t be on some ladies’ room couch weeping into our best friend’s brother’s jacket, or here feeling sorry for ourselves on some plastic chair, alone and in the dark.”

His heart dropped at her saying the word ‘alone’.

She continued without really taking another breath. “They’re out there somewhere, though,” She finally smiled up at him.

_Okay, why am I feeling dizzy?_

“and she and I might have to scour the planet, but we’ll find them.”

He felt sweat begin to bead on his forehead. “Uh….yeah.”

She laughed. “I mean, it’s not as if the guy of my dreams is just gonna show up on my front walk one morning, is it?”

“Um…. _No_. You are….” He took a deep breath, his chest hurting. “You are…..” He shook his head of the thought and put on a smile that masked his newfound feelings. “ _STILL_ sitting there, Sansa Stark! Even after you just said it yourself! Come on,” his smile widened for her sake and he held out his upturned palm. “up outta your _throne_ , your highness. You’re not gonna find that prince of yours in some empty ballroom.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all who've commented on the series. <3


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